


It's a Process

by masteremeraldholder



Category: First & Then - Emma Mills
Genre: Acephobia, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Character Study, Character(s) of Color, Depression, Established Relationship, F slur, F/M, Fluff, Football, Gay Character, Homophobia, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Panic Attacks, Rated T for swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2020-10-29 02:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20789138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masteremeraldholder/pseuds/masteremeraldholder
Summary: “Are you going out with Ezra?” Foster continued. “Like a date?”“Yes, like a date,” I said, not that it was any of his business. But it hit me then that this was our first date. Real relationship shit.Dinner was almost over before a knock came at the door. You would’ve thought Ezra was taking us all out with how fast my parents and Foster perked up.“See if he wants to come in,” Dad urged.I knew I wasn’t ready to invite Ezra into the Tennyson jungle, so I rushed out the door, grabbing my purse and throwing a hurried “Maybe next time,” over my shoulder.(Or what happens after the events of First & Then)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this has to be one of my all-time favorite books, man... i’ve been wanting to write for them since i read it, and have just gotten around to it three years later, :'')
> 
> \- some [art](https://princesadaisy.tumblr.com/post/188171105990/the-floating-heads-of-dev-and-ezra-from-first) my sister drew to accompany the fic!!
> 
> \- for your [listening](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1grRNO0PwzYzZzQkagjP2w) pleasure

I spent the rest of Saturday morning playing board games with Foster until he finally fell asleep on the couch. Mom and Dad were in their room still unpacking from the trip. I threw a blanket over Foster before heading to the kitchen for some breakfast.

My head was swimming with thoughts. Some good. Some bad. All of them about Foster and his future here. I knew he was happy being here. But there was also that underlying doubt that one day he would decide he wasn’t. What would we do then?

…

Foster looked pretty rough Monday morning at breakfast. Quite the contrary, he talked a mile a minute. Nothing out of the ordinary, just his usual ramblings. (What he learned this morning with Ezra: Ezra’s favorite brand of toothpaste.) I just couldn’t get past those dark circles under his eyes. It reminded me too much of that Foster from the beginning of summer.

I finished the last of my _ Vanilla Chex _as he went on about the incoming autumn weather. It was his next statement that got me. 

“Ezra says Marabelle’s been asking about me.”

I paused. For one, I wasn’t sure whether or not Ezra knew about Foster and Marabelle. How could he? But as Foster had said earlier, it wasn’t like they were in a relationship. It could’ve been friendly. So, I said, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He stared down at his plate of half-eaten eggs and toast.

Though Foster didn’t say anything, I knew he was still hurting. He had kept mostly quiet all weekend. The only time I asked him about it was Saturday when he’d woken up from his nap.

“It’s a process, Dev,” He said. I didn’t know if he was talking about dealing with not being able to play or Marabelle. I didn’t ask any further.

But as I sat there at the kitchen table, I realized that either way it went, it was a process. Coming to grips with it. Wishing it were different. Not wanting to hash over it anymore.

…

Temple Sterling barely pulled out a win. According to the _ T.S. Herald, _Cas received an insane pass and took it in for the winning touchdown. But Cas’ touchdown was utterly shadowed by the paragraph and half about Foster Tennyson, the freshman kicker who would be out for the season. Rachel went heavy on the dramatics.

As such, everyone gave Foster a ton of unwanted attention. It didn’t stop even on Tuesday in gym. Foster was quickly absorbed into the swarm of PTs and freshboys as soon as Mister Sellers finished explaining today's drill. It was similar to that of an overstimulated dog. Sooner or later, it would bite.

“They can’t get enough of him,” Ezra said.

“Yeah,” I dodged a stray basketball. Since taking a rogue ball to the face two weeks ago, I was especially cautious. “I just hope no one loses a hand.”

Ezra dribbled the ball twice, then took a shot. It bounced off the rim. I caught the rebound and shot too. The ball fell several feet short of the net. Neither of us could shoot for shit.

Ezra scooped up the ball, held it under his arm. “How’s he really taking it?” He nodded towards Foster who passed a ball to a beaming Gracie Holtzer.

“I dunno. I thought he’d tell you.” If Foster could keep a secret (me) with Ezra for two months, then he would most definitely tell him everything under the sun.

“Nah. He’s been pretty quiet.”

So, maybe Foster wanted to keep to himself. Let the process play out on its own. Who was I to force him to talk? Certainly not his therapist.

“He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

I glanced over at Ezra. If there was anyone I trusted to know Foster besides myself, it was him. So, I did.

“First to three, loser pays for dilly bars.” I took the ball from his grasp and tried to spin it in my hands. Try being the keyword. The ball fell out of my hands and promptly landed on my foot.

The corners of Ezra’s lips turned upwards slightly, something I was coming to know as a smile.

“You’re on.”

…

That incoming autumn weather that Foster was talking about was nonexistent as I trekked across campus under the afternoon sun. Foster, for all of his oddities, had never done anything as drastic as disappearing. He wasn’t at the senior lot, where I’d told him I’d meet him since he didn’t have practice anymore. And I had waited a good ten minutes— along with two phone calls— before I finally got out and started searching for him.

I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. It always seemed to get hotter right before fall. The hotter I got, the more puzzled I got. Was the attention getting to Foster? Had he gone to practice one last time? I went with that thought and made my way to the football field.

I looked for his form on the field from the bleachers. Nothing. He was gone. I chewed my lip, wondering how I was going to break the news to my parents that I had lost their son when I heard voices behind me.

I turned. Further up in the stands, there was Foster sitting with Marabelle. And all in that moment, I understood. This was still the process. I sat down on the lowest stand to give them another moment.

Below, practice was going along as usual. Cas’ half-assed jumping jacks. Ezra’s not so half-assed jumping jacks. They had to be frying in those uniforms.

Eventually, Foster came down the steps and sat beside me. Neither of us said anything. We watched them practice for a bit. They were on to sprints.

“Today’s her last day,” Foster told me. “She said she’s gonna stay home until Baby’s born. She wanted to see me one last time.”

I looked at him. Foster’s face was unusually blank. Not sad, not mad. Blank. “That’s understandable,” I said. Marabelle was reaching the beginning of her eighth month. Baby would be here before long.

“I know. I still wish it was different.”

“That’s understandable too.”

He blinked. Was he going to cry? “I miss her,” He said.

Even though Marabelle was right up there behind us, I understood what he meant. Not wanting it all to change.

“Me too,” I said.

…

Ezra and I decided to call a truce, which was partly due to the fact that neither of us managed to score a single point in that fifty minute gym period. So, we bargained— he would drive and I would pay.

It was eight-thirty when we made it to the _Dairy Queen._ Ezra held the door open and I stepped in, taking in the blissful smell of cheeseburgers and fries. The gentle whirring of the mixers as they whipped the blizzards. It was obvious I hadn’t eaten much at dinner.

The line wasn’t too long. I handed the cashier five bucks, got my change, and brought back two dilly bars to where Ezra sat: a booth nestled in the corner.

“Who knew the great Ezra Lynley would be so terrible at basketball?” I slid into the seat across from him, handed him the bar. “That’s pretty atypical.”

“At least I’m not a stereotype,” He said. “Makes things interesting.”

I grinned. “You didn’t tell me Marabelle was staying home.”

“She just decided yesterday,” He looked like a timid kid as he bit into the chocolatey-vanilla goodness. I could tell ice cream wasn’t his thing.

“Foster’s gonna miss her.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Foster hadn’t mentioned Marabelle all evening. In fact, he was more interested in what I was doing.

“Where are you going?” He asked when I craned my neck to see out of the front window. I thought I heard someone pull up. No one was there, of course, but it seemed that Foster was back to his usual inquisitive self.

“Nunya,” I said, pushing my peas around my plate.

_ “Devon,” _ Mom scolded. I suppressed a sigh.

“Are you going out with Ezra?” Foster continued. “Like a date?”

“Yes, like a date,” I said, not that it was any of his business. But it hit me then that this was our first date. Real relationship shit.

Dinner was almost over before a knock came at the door. You would’ve thought Ezra was taking us all out with how fast my parents and Foster perked up.

“See if he wants to come in,” Dad urged.

I knew I wasn’t ready to invite Ezra into the Tennyson jungle, so I rushed out the door, grabbing my purse and throwing a hurried “Maybe next time,” over my shoulder.

Once in Ezra’s truck, I explained what a pain my family was. Ezra seemed flattered. “Whenever you want me to, I will,” He said, then kissed my cheek. Jane would’ve had a fricking field day.

Now, I was halfway through with my dilly bar, Ezra was still fussing with his. It was a sight to see, at the very least— and I had never used this word to describe anyone— cute.

“I don’t want them to think I’m a dickhead,” He was referring to my parents. Was Ezra worried about making a good impression?

“They don’t,” I said. Ezra could’ve cursed my parents out and they still probably would’ve thought he was the lamb of God. “You aren’t.”

He hummed.

“And, y’know… whenever you’re ready for me to meet your mom, I’ll be too. No rush.” I wanted to let him know that I was okay with it too. I didn’t want to look like a stuck-up snob to his mom either.

Ezra blinked. Then held out his free hand, reaching for mine. Our hands intertwined, resting on the tabletop. His fingertips were tough and calloused. But his grip was gentle. Warm.

“Okay,” He said.


	2. Chapter 2

At lunch with Sophie on Thursday, I made the ill-fated decision of picking up a sloppy joe in the lunch line. They were probably my favorite thing on the menu, despite the fact that they smelled like puke.

“I can’t believe you eat those,” Sophie had a grimace on her face. She took a bite of her burger and grimaced again. “Crap, I forgot the ketchup.”

Even I had to cringe at that. Condiments were an integral part of TS High burgers. They were like off-brand toilet paper: cheap and dry as hell. I myself had eaten my fair share of burgers and was plumb sick of them.

“This is a judgment-free zone, Sophie,” I said. “That includes food too.”

Sophie Walters was a freshman and had an innate ability to make me question everything I said. I liked her.

Sophie shook her head. “Yeah, except for those. They smell and they’re messy.”

She wasn’t lying. I hadn’t even gotten a full bite in before I spilled processed pork down the front of my white t-shirt.

“Crap,” I said.

Sophie tapped her chin. “I dunno, it kinda looks like a weird tie-dye.”

Tie-dye wasn’t really my thing, so I stood up, told Sophie I was running to the restroom and would be right back.

I pushed through the double doors of the cafeteria, still rubbing at the steadily growing stain. I didn’t notice Cas until he said my name.

“How’s it going?” He asked, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.

It had been almost a week since I last talked to him that night outside of the hospital. If I was being honest, I hadn’t thought of Cas at all. Was that wrong?

“Good,” I discreetly covered the stain on my shirt with my hand.

“How’s Foster?”

“Alright. He’s been keeping busy.”

“Yeah, I noticed Marabelle’s gone. They were always together.”

There was a lull in the conversation. So, I asked, “You been okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”

I could tell that something was bugging him. The hunched posture, hands jammed in his pockets. That wasn’t the Cas I knew. Did I even want to know that Cas anymore?

I wasn’t sure. But I did know that smelling like puke for the rest of the day wouldn’t suffice. I attempted to walk away. “Okay, well, I’ll talk to you later, then.”

Cas stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, um, about what happened at the dance.”

I was aware that he was touching me. But it wasn’t the same. How I would long for our hands to brush as we walked side-by-side. It would never be the same.

“What about it?”

There was a pinched look on his face. “It was stupid to go with Gracie. You were right.”

I didn’t say anything. What could I say?

“You were right, Dev. I fucked up. With Gracie. With Lindsay. With you.”

I wanted to ask how, exactly, he could fuck up with three different girls, but he beat me to the punch.

“I told Gracie I wasn’t looking for anything serious and now her and her friends are giving me the stink eye whenever I pass by. It’s creepy. And Lindsay… she won’t even look at me.”

I took it all in. My final consensus was both Lindsay and Gracie were too good for him. Cas had fucked up big time and I was the only one left for him to come running back to. Was that all I was to him? Someone for him to cry to and forgive him? I didn’t want to forgive him.

“I wanna make it up to you, Devon,” He said. His hand finally fell from my shoulder. I still couldn’t face him straight on. “I know you’re dating Ezra or whatever, but that doesn’t mean we still can’t be friends.”

Before Cas had a chance to finish that frankly ignorant statement, someone called him. Jordan Hunter.

“Cassidy! Champ! How’s it going?” Jordan called as he made his way down the hall.

Cas smiled, though his brow was wrinkled up. He was uncomfortable. “Hey, man.”

Jordan clapped him on the back then hugged me. “It’s good to see y’all are talkin’ again.”

“Yeah,” I said. I could feel Cas’ eyes on me. “Where’re you headed?”

“The cafeteria. I was thinkin’ I might try some school lunch.”

I still had that fricking sloppy joe stain on my shirt. It was starting to stink. God.

“Hey,” Jordan smiled, then leaned in close to both me and Cas. “Don’t tell anyone yet, but I’m havin’ a Halloween party at my place. You should come.”

It was nearing Halloween, wasn’t it? Nevertheless, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could put up with standing there smelling like vomit and feeling Cas’ eyes on me like lasers.

“Yeah, definitely,” I said. “I’ll catch you later.” Cas gave me a pleading look. I turned my head and went into the restroom.

…

I made it to my car— which was parked rather crookedly beside Ezra’s truck— just as Foster came up the walk, a huge, plastic container in tow. By huge, I meant colossal. Foster was struggling to carry it.

My face must not have been not so great because he said, “We’ve got a science convention coming up and this is my part of the project.” The Future Science Revolutionaries of America had struck again. We managed to shove it in the trunk when I heard a familiar voice. Both Foster and I turned.

“Devon!” Lindsay Renshaw rolled her window down, all smiles. “Hey, Foster!”

“Hey,” I said. Unlike Cas, I had seen Lindsay this week, though it was in the hall passing by. It was the action that counted, wasn’t it? “How’s it going?”

“Just fine! I’m heading to Parker’s last game for the season. Hey, y’all wanna come? It’s gonna be a good one!”

I thought it might’ve been a little too early for Foster to be back in the fray of football, but he surprised me by saying, “Sure.” I didn’t protest.

We drove across the street to the junior high field. It was a pretty good turnout for a C team game. That said, it was still meager compared to varsity games. We followed Lindsay up in the stands. The game was almost to the second quarter. Temple Sterling was down by four.

“Want a  _ Coke?” _ Lindsay pulled two sodas from the cooler behind her. She was really a blessing. A woman, who I guess was her mother, smiled at me. I could see where Lindsay got her looks and personality from.

“Thanks,” I took the drinks and handed Foster one. He was already caught up in the game. I had assumed it would be too painful, but Foster was an anomaly. If it bothered the average person, you could bet it wouldn’t bother him at all.

“Don’t worry,” Lindsay patted my leg. “He’s gonna heal up alright and play better than ever next season.”

I sat there, wide-eyed. Then I took a sip of Coke. “You could take up a job being a psychic if college doesn’t work out.”

She smiled warmly. “Oh, no, I’m just too excited about it! Remember what I told you about being roommates?”

I recalled the statement. That seemed like ages ago. “Yeah.”

“I can’t get the idea out of my head!”

I had to admit, the thought was slowly wearing me down. Lindsay had a habit of doing that.

“Me too,” I said, meaning it. Below, the first quarter finished. Temple Sterling was still down. I looked away from the field. There was a question, or statement rather, burning in my mind. I ran a finger over the rim of my can. “So. Cas.”

Lindsay’s face darkened slightly. “He finally spoke to you?”

I nodded.

Lindsay shook her head. “I told him I didn’t want to talk to him until he patched it up with both you and Gracie. You see how far he’s gotten with that.” Not very far at all. “But nevermind him,” She leaned in close, grinning mischievously. “I, um, haven’t seen much of that  _ soup _ lately. It’s okay?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah.”

Lindsay broke out into an even bigger grin. “I could tell! He hardly said a word in English this week! I think he’s too happy, y’know?”

I did.


	3. Chapter 3

I was back in Missus Wentworth’s office Monday of the following week. That ACHIEVEMENT lion poster stared down at me. I still didn’t know what to think of it. 

“This is good, Devon,” She said, flipping back through my three-page essay. _ “Really good.” _

After several attempts to rework “School Lunches, TS High, and Me”, I scrapped the idea, opened a new _ Word _ document, and wrote the first thing that came to my mind. That thing was Foster. Thirty minutes later, “Fostering Foster”— a witty recap of the past five months of with Foster— was nearly a page long.

“Thanks,” My hands fidgeted in my lap. I wasn’t nervous, if anything, humble. Giving praise was always easier than receiving it.

“Your extracurriculars are much better. Do you have your résumé?”

“Yeah,” I pulled it out of my bag and handed it to her. Added to it was my article with Rachel and my TA hours with Missus Chambers.

“Well!” Missus Wentworth looked especially pleased. “You have everything set. All that’s left is to apply. That’s the easy part. Do you know when the deadline is?”

“Regular decision isn’t until next year.”

“What about Early Decision? I know it’s binding, but you’re sure of Reeding, aren’t you?”

I was. That visit sold it for me. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Let’s do it. Early Decision begins November first. Submit it ASAP. You’ll get your response back before Christmas.”

Christmas was two months away. Two whole months. I would be a different person by then.

“Let me know what happens,” She put the essay and résumé into my file along with the Reeding postcard and old essay. _ “Excellent _ work. I’m proud of you.”

I pushed out of the seat. “Yeah, uh, it was that poster.” I pointed to the bright-eyed ACHIEVEMENT lion.

This time, I saw Isobel Wentworth’s full smile.

…

For how inanimate Ezra usually looked, his face was surprisingly expressive as he read— eyebrows drawn, eyes dark. Focused. Of course, expressive for Ezra was blatantly neutral to everyone else.

“Sorry about the, uh, condition,” I said. I wasn’t so much ashamed as I was aware of how personal my books were to me. But even with the highlighting and annotations, _ Emma _ was in better shape than _ Pride & Prejudice. _

“Don’t be,” Ezra closed the book almost reverently. “Thanks for loaning it to me.”

I mirrored his lean on the wall. After my second period Spanish II class was the first time I saw him on Mondays. “If I’m being honest, I’m kinda glad that I’ve got someone else to talk about them with. Jane’s not for everyone, y’know?”

He regarded that with a straight-faced nod. “Remember what I said last night?”

Ezra had said a lot, actually. I had called him around twelve, and we spent the night talking on the phone until three. Ezra kept me company as I polished up my college essay in a caffeine-induced burst. Somewhere in there, he had mentioned that he was interested in reading more of Jane’s books, so I brought him _ Emma. _ He looked happy to have it. Tired, but happy.

“Before or after the dog videos?” I asked.

“After,” He snorted. _ “Way _ after.”

“Remind me.”

Ezra opened his mouth to say something, but he stopped just short. His eyes moved to something else behind me.

I turned around. It was Rachel Woodson.

“Devon,” She acknowledged me briefly before her gaze trailed over to Ezra. She nodded at him. Ezra just looked. “I have another proposition.” Rachel’s ability to over-exaggerate common things would never cease to amaze me.

“Shoot,” I said.

“Since the last article went so well, I was looking to do a sequel. _ How injuries can ruin a player’s plan. _ Y’know, foil their agenda. Anyway, I’ve still got a ton of work to do, so you’ll have to conduct the interview. I don’t think you’ll have a problem with it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d like you to interview your cousin.”

Foster? I seriously could not believe the things that actually came out of Rachel’s mouth.

“He’s my brother,” I told her. “And his career isn’t ruined. He’s just out for the season.”

There was something weird going on around Rachel’s mouth, like she wanted to say something else, but decided against it. “That’s something you can elaborate on in the final compilation,” She handed me a thick packet of papers. “I went ahead and printed the questions— I still need your contact info, by the way. Get back to me when you can!” She left in the same manner she had arrived in: hurried with a sense of importance.

“She really scares me,” Ezra said when we started heading toward his Advanced Math class.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I mean, what type of agenda would Foster even have? The world record for the most out-of-place comments made?”

“Not gonna lie, _ Guinness World Record _ holder would look good on his résumé.”

I laughed. “What were you saying before?”

It took me a moment to realize that Ezra was hesitating. He stared at something down the hall before he finally spoke. “Last night… you said you were worried that you wouldn’t get into college. I think you were half-asleep, it didn’t sound like something you’d usually say.”

For the life of me, I could not recall saying any of this.

“But Dev,” Ezra looked at me in the same manner he had studied the book. Absolute focus. “You deserve it. You do.”

My lips stayed shut. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d say something stupid and ruin the moment. Sarcasm was my crutch.

Ezra continued, “My mom always says you should be around people that you can learn from… And I do learn when I’m around you. I’m not sure what you learn from me, but… I hope it’s good.”

I wanted to kiss him right there in the hallway. I wanted to smooth my fingers over the worry lines between his eyebrows. I wanted him to know how much I needed to hear that.

But all I could say was, “It’s good. Don’t worry.”

Ezra smiled. Crooked bottom teeth and all.

…

In a mere month and a half, Foster’s hair was beginning to grow out of that freshboy cut. While it wasn’t all the way back to the shaggy mass of curls that it was before, it was long enough that he had to sweep it back out of his face every so often. This was bothering my mom, I could tell. Foster seemed oblivious.

I hadn’t planned on spending my Wednesday night at _ Ruth’s Chris, _ but I wasn’t complaining. The steaks were really good and this was— according to Mom— a special occasion.

Dad found the finalization papers of Foster’s adoption in the mail that evening and Mom insisted we go out to celebrate even after she had already started dinner. I think she was glad for an excuse not to cook. Foster was more or less unperturbed.

Even when we were seated at our table in the restaurant and I jokingly asked him how it felt to be a Tennyson. “I dunno,” He shrugged, then pointed to something on the menu. “Aunt Kathy, what’s béarnaise?” I wrote it off as Foster just being himself.

We ordered and made small talk. Mom asked me about the Road-to-College Club. Thankfully, the food came so I didn’t have to answer. Foster stared meekly at his filet.

“What’s wrong, bud?” Dad asked.

“I didn’t know it would be so… pink.” That had to be the most Foster-y thing to say at the moment. Dad just chuckled. I hadn’t spoken to Foster about Rachel’s proposition. It still seemed too soon to rehash it all and I wasn’t sure how Foster was going to react. That worried me the most.

Dinner passed uneventfully. It wasn’t until we were almost finished that Dad said, “I saw Cassidy at the gas station today.”

Already, I could tell this was going into rough waters. “Yeah?” I filled my mouth with potatoes to avoid saying anymore.

“He told me he wished you would call him.”

That sounded just like Cas. “And what’d you say?” I couldn’t help myself. I had to know.

“Well, sweetheart,” Dad smiled wryly. “That language isn’t appropriate for the dinner table.”

Foster laughed, which was shocking on its own. He barely spoke to Dad, let alone laughed at his jokes. I just blinked. A part of me wanted to laugh. The other half still missed him. Cas Kincaid was my best friend. That wouldn’t just suddenly go away.

“I’m sure that wasn’t necessary, dear,” Mom scolded, though a smile was breaking through.

“Sure it was. The way he said it— like he couldn’t pick up the damn phone and call himself,” Dad scoffed. “I’ve never liked him. Ezra’s a much better kid.”

I was suddenly defensive. “Can we stop talking about this, please?”

Dad paused. “Sorry, kiddo. I thought… I was doing the right thing.”

Everything dealing with Cas had become so unclear, even I didn’t know what constituted as the right thing to do. Forgive him? Let Dad rag on him some more?

“Devon, can you blame us?” Mom jumped in. “He broke your heart, honey.”

“He did?” Foster looked way too intrigued.

_ “No, _ he didn’t— it wasn’t…” I didn’t know what it was. “It’s complicated.”

No one said anything for a bit. Mom sighed. Dad stared sullenly at his empty plate. Foster watched me. “You deserve a good guy, Dev,” He said.

I could only stare back at him. That was nearly the same thing Ezra had told me. _ Deserving something. _ Why was it so hard to believe them?

Foster added, “Ezra’s a good guy.”

Unlike Cas, Ezra had made an effort to be present in my at-home life. Foster’s party. That night he came over and watched _ Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. _ Even at the hospital. He was always there. I could count on one hand the number of times Cas had come over to my house. A few birthdays here and there. Something always came up.

I thought back to yesterday after gym. Ezra told me that Marabelle was adding to her list of names for Baby. She asked him what he thought about Nick. Ezra told her it would be good to hear his brother’s name again. I kissed him chastely on the lips, feeling something warm in my chest. It was the way he talked about his family, so loving and devoted. It was how he felt safe enough around me to let me in.

“I know,” I said. “I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the week was uneventful until Friday rolled around. Game day. It had also been two weeks since Foster was declared out for the season. I was beginning to think that I was more unnerved by it than him.

My suspicions were proved that morning when we saw Jordan in the hallway before class. “Foster,” He said, but threw an arm over my shoulder, then rubbed Foster’s curly head. Only Jordan could manage to make such an awkward movement look natural. “I need to see you in those stands tonight, and Champ, you on the sidelines.”

“Sure thing!” Foster answered.

I realized a beat too late that I hadn’t said anything. “Uh, yeah. We’ll be there.”

It was only when Jordan walked away that Foster told me, “Y’know you don’t have to worry about me, Dev. I’m fine. Really.”

“That’s my job,” I said automatically. Ironically, I wouldn’t have thought of telling him that four months ago.

He just looked at me for a moment. Then said, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

…

The game was an away game in Saint Mitchell, maybe a thirty-five minute drive from Temple Sterling. Their team was pretty good with only one loss for the entire season. Everyone knew that it was going to be a tough game, but that didn’t stop TS fans from showing up, even as the temperature finally dropped below sixty. At last, it felt like fall.

We got there thirty minutes before kickoff. Away games usually didn’t garner as much of a crowd, but the visitor stand was pretty full since it was the second district game. Foster waved goodbye to me, then disappeared into the sea of red and white with a couple of kids from the C team. I headed down to the field to assume my usual role as Mister Harper’s lackey. The game was quickly underway.

In the first quarter, Saint Mitchell pulled out two consecutive touchdowns. But by halftime, Temple Sterling had the lead. They went back and forth like that throughout the third quarter, neither keeping a definitive lead for very long. Needless to say, the sidelines were tense. Even Mister Harper couldn’t stop sighing every time Saint Mitchell gained a few yards.

By the last quarter, we were one touchdown away from a win. Reggie Wilcox handed off the ball to Ezra, who took off down the field like a bolt of lightning. But he wasn’t alone. Within a matter of seconds, Ezra was tackled by Saint Mitchell’s number forty-nine. It wasn’t an audacious play on our part, especially considering Ezra had ran farther before. But number forty-nine— his jersey read Ortega Cruz— was a beast. He had the build of a lineman, but the speed and agility of a receiver.

The clock wound down. Temple Sterling lost. 20-18. I made my leave from the field, heading into the crowd of red and white. A familiar voice caught my attention. It was Lindsay.

“Hey,” I told her. “Good game, huh?”

She wrapped her arm around mine, bringing with her an aura of amity. “Yes! I just about went hoarse from screaming,” Then she leaned in close to me. “And don’t tell anybody, but I even swore a couple of times.” I couldn’t help but smile. Lindsay would forever have that effect on me.

While I looked for Foster in the crowd, we chatted about the game, the last quarter in particular.

“I wonder how he’s feeling,” Lindsay mused.

“Ezra?”

“No, Jordan.”

“Why?”

She leaned in close again. “Number forty-nine, the one who tackled Ezra in the last quarter. That’s David. He’s Jordan’s partner.”

“Partner?” I questioned. “Like… a significant other?”

Lindsay bit her lip, then nodded.

The thought bounced around in my head. Was this the someone else Jordan was sat down for as he had told me at the dance? I wasn’t all the way convinced, not that Lindsay was a liar or anything. I wasn’t sure how she knew that, or if it was even true, but as I listened around me to other people’s conversations about the game, I could hear that it wasn’t just a rumor. It was all everyone was talking about. Jordan Hunter had been dating David Ortega Cruz since junior year.

“It’s horrible,” Lindsay said, shaking her head. My eyes widened. I hadn’t thought of Lindsay as one to be homophobic. But she saw my face and her eyes bulged too. “No, no, I’m happy for him! I mean it’s horrible how they forced him out.”

“Forced him out? When? How?” I couldn’t contain my curiosity.

“After practice today, I think. A couple of the boys were goofing around and some words were said… and y’know word travels fast in Temple Sterling.”

Yeah. Greased lightning fast.

“God,” I said. “That is horrible.”

“But he’s such a gentleman, Devon. D’you know he answered all of their questions? Even the inappropriate ones?” Lindsay clutched her chest. “I haven’t gotten to talk to him yet, but when I do, I’m gonna give him a big hug and tell him I’m proud of him.”

I had to agree. “Me too.”

…

“You’re sure you don’t wanna go? Mom said it was okay for you to stay out a little longer.”

“Nah,” Foster just stared out the window into the inky blackness of night. “I’m good.”

I turned my eyes back to the road.

Foster didn’t want to go to the postgame party. I had asked him twice now, and both times he said he was tired. He looked the part, but I knew by now that when he said that, something else was up. I was feeling rather rundown myself, but I told Lindsay I would come.

I cleared my throat. “Hell of a game.”

“Yeah,” He said and that was it. No added commentary. Nothing.

It was silent for the rest of the drive. Foster didn’t open his mouth until I pulled up outside of our house.

“Did you hear what they’re saying about Jordan?” He still wouldn’t turn away from the window.

“Yeah,” I watched him. Was that what had been eating him? “Yeah, I heard.”

“They’re calling him names.”

“I know.”

Foster finally turned and looked at me. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were sad. “It’s wrong.”

“It is. But the important thing is that you don’t call him those names.”

He sighed restlessly, then got out of the car without another word. I backed out and drove away.


	5. Chapter 5

Twenty minutes later, I was going for the world record of most awkward party hovering. The venue of tonight’s shindig was Molly McDowell’s squat cottage-style home, hardly an appropriate spot for a losing party. Both the house and front lawn were crowded full of people. I had just barely managed to find an empty wall to lean on.

A couple more minutes passed. Lindsay hadn’t shown up yet. I hadn’t heard from Ezra since his last text an hour ago. I was contemplating leaving. I was tired. And for some reason, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something entirely stupid was about to happen, per the usual with losing parties. I decided to follow my gut. But by the time I made it to the door, Lindsay, Jordan, and Ezra were filing in. Talk about timing.

“Champ,” Jordan asked, sticking his black-out shades up into his dark dreads. “Where you going, baby?”

“Nowhere,” I smiled, then I hugged him just like I had planned to. Jordan couldn’t have possibly known what that hug meant, but I still held onto him a little longer, and he didn’t complain.

When I let go, Lindsay didn’t hesitate to hug me just because. “I think he’s doin’ okay,” She whispered in my ear. “At least from what I can tell.”

“I’m glad,” I told her.

After Lindsay had pulled away and walked off, I finally got a good look at Ezra. With his hands stuffed in his pockets and a slightly overwhelmed look on his face, Ezra looked like he could use a hug.

“C’mere,” I said, my arms opened wide. “You get one too.”

He blinked. Then a soft smile split across his face as he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, and as cliché as it sounded, I melted into him. I pressed my face into his neck. He smelled like soap. We were one.

“So generous,” He mumbled into my hair, which probably needed washing.

“I try,” I replied.

After we’d pulled away, Ezra took my hand, and we made our way through the rambunctious partygoers in search of a quieter spot. Jordan was seated on his throne in the living room where most of the activity was. Lindsay was chatting with some friends by the cooler.

Ezra and I ended up on the back porch. It was mostly empty save for some guys playing hacky sack and a group of smokers. We settled on the ground with our backs against the house. It had gotten colder since the game, but there was an outdoor heater right beside us.

“You okay?” I asked Ezra, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. He looked more relaxed now that there were fewer people around. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, highlighting the swarm of freckles there. It occurred to me that maybe I was looking too hard.

Ezra shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

“The game?”

He shook his head again. “Jordan.”

“What about him?”

“I told him not to come. These people are fucking idiots, Dev.” Ezra sounded like he knew from experience, but I didn’t push any further.

“What happened at practice?” I asked instead.

Ezra made a face. “Coach Evans had to intervene. It was… bad.”

He didn't say more on it. But I could infer that it wasn’t good. 

“He’ll be fine,” I said. “He’s…  _ Jordan.”  _ That was explanatory enough. Ezra looked at me like he wasn’t convinced. I swallowed. “So, did you know about… David?”

“Yeah. Since junior year. He’s cool.” I was shocked. Not so much by him knowing that Jordan had a boyfriend, but by the fact that Ezra actually  _ liked _ someone.

I listened as Ezra told me more about David. His family was from Cuba, but he’d lived in Saint Mitchell all of his life. Besides football, he liked cooking and baking. And like Jordan, David was also signed to UGA.

Ezra continued, “It’s no one’s business what they do, everyone’s just being assholes about it.” I realized then that I was glad that Ezra was who he was. Kind. Thoughtful. A good guy.

And I wanted to tell him that. Tell him just how much I appreciated that he wasn’t a sucky human being. But I took the easy way out and kept my mouth closed. I leaned over and laid my head on his shoulder. It wasn’t cuddly, but I liked it either way.

Ezra kissed my forehead. His nose was cold. It suddenly hit me how relieved I was that nothing had gone wrong. That he was okay. 

“That was some tackle,” I said.

“Yeah,” Ezra said. “He’s good. Really good.” 

That sat in the air for a moment. It was idyllic. Until someone stuck their head out the door to my right and shouted, “There’s a fight!”

Fistfights, for how little they actually happened, were a prime source of entertainment. It brought unrelated people together better than a pep rally and would be twice as memorable. I wasn't above watching them, so long as there was enough distance between myself and the assailants.

I turned to Ezra, hoping he looked even a tiny bit amused. He didn’t.

I laughed. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t like a good fight.”

Ezra snorted, but stood up regardless. “Good being the keyword.”

He helped me up and we headed into the commotion. It was loud and stuffy, as it usually was during these things. I strained my neck to see what was going on.

Cas was standing there by the stereo, hands splayed out in front of him as if blocking a punch. For a brief second, my heart sunk. But I realized Cas wasn’t fighting, rather attempting to hold someone back. Stanton Perkins.

“Fucking traitor!” Stanton yelled, swaying a bit. It wasn't clear who he was insulting, but he was obviously inebriated. “He threw the game with that lazy fucking tackle!”

“Hey, man,” Cas grinned sheepishly. “Chill, okay?”

That only seemed to enrage Stanton further. “Don’t start with me, Kincaid. He did that shit on purpose!” He jabbed a fat finger in the direction of the couch where Jordan sat. That feeling in my stomach had returned. I knew this wasn’t going to end well.

Jordan only smiled in response, though I could tell it was strained. Lindsay was right there beside him, her face twisted into a look that I’d never seen from her before. Anger. 

“Why would he do that on purpose?” Lindsay challenged. “That makes no sense.”

“So Saint Mitchell would go to the Championship,” Stanton replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Him and his faggot boyfriend had it out for us from the beginning!”

I stiffened. Beside me, Ezra’s jaw was tight. His fists were clenched. The room had gone deadly silent. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my chest started to ache.

“I mean,” Jordan snorted, finally breaking the silence. “I didn’t see you tryna help. But if it’s weak tackles you wanna talk about, why don't you ask yourself, huh?”

All at once, Stanton rushed forward— Cas jumped out of the way just in time to avoid being trampled— Jordan stood up, and Ezra was across the room before I could say anything. Next thing I knew, I was pushing my way through the crowd to Ezra. All I could think of was him being injured and me not being there to help him. I couldn’t let that happen.

Ezra had stopped beside Jordan, who was in an intense stare-off with Stanton. They were nearly chest to chest. Stanton smelled like hard liquor. I wasn’t even that close to him and it was enough to make me puke. But even against the stench and even though Stanton was bigger than him, Jordan stood strong. 

“Hey,” I put my hand on Ezra’s back. “Let’s go.” But Ezra stood there scowling at Stanton. Immovable. I knew he wasn’t going to leave Jordan there. I didn’t want to myself.

“You make me sick,” Stanton sneered darkly.

Jordan snorted, then opened his mouth, but before he could say anything a clear voice broke the silence.

“Are we going to make a habit out of meeting like this, Perkins?” We all turned. It was Emir Zurivic.

Stanton made a face. “What’re you, the fag patrol? What’s your fucking issue?”

Emir blinked. Then a not-so-nice smile spread across his face. Frightening was a better word.

“Man,” Cas had appeared by my side. Even he knew that Emir was not smiling because he was pleased to see Stanton. “Just go.” 

“I’m not scared of his ass—” Stanton stopped suddenly, his cheeks looking green. Then he stumbled off down the hall, presumably to empty his stomach.

Emir watched Stanton go. “This is a warning,” He said in a threatening voice. Then he grinned. “Don’t drink cheap liquor!” The tense mood lifted, and everybody went back to partying.

I exhaled. Ezra turned to me, looking me over as if I’d gotten hurt. “I’m good,” I told him. Ezra nodded. Then his gaze trailed to Cas, who was still beside me.

“You okay?” Cas asked Jordan. “I dunno what happened. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“People reveal them true selves eventually,” Lindsay stood up, her eyes never leaving Cas.

I bit my lip. Cas flushed, looking away. And Jordan laughed. “Yeah, man,” He was all smiles despite what had just occurred. “Yeah, m’good. I think m’gonna head out, though.”

The five of us headed towards the door. The front lawn was devoid of partygoers from the ‘It’s a fight’ scare. Jordan came to a stop there on the walkway. He sighed heavily, finally losing the smile.

Ezra studied Jordan, seemingly knowing what was going on in his head. The rest of us certainly didn’t. “You know it’s not your fault,” Ezra said.

“Then why do I feel like it is?” Jordan’s voice was a whisper. His hands were shaking. I had never seen him like this. Wordlessly, Ezra stepped forward and hugged him. Cas patted Jordan on the shoulder.

Lindsay and I watched as the two spoke softly to Jordan. “I was scared out of my wits,” Lindsay shook her head. “That Stanton is the absolute worst.”

I had to agree. He was a blatant homophobe with a severe lack of basic problem-solving skills. It was terrifying that people like Stanton would go on to start families of their own, furthering the cycle of ignorance. Even more terrifying than that was knowing that there would continue to be victims of homophobia like Jordan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> homophobia ain't cool, kids


	6. Chapter 6

I tossed and turned in bed that night. No amount of breathing exercises or counting sheep seemed to calm my mind enough for sleep to take over. It was around two when I relented to my insomnia and went downstairs. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.

Dad was up in his _ La-Z-Boy, _ working on some paperwork from the light of  _ The Simpsons _ reruns on TV.

“Hey,” I said.

He reached for the remote. “Couldn’t sleep?”

I shook my head. 

“Me either.”

Dad gestured to the sofa beside his recliner. I crossed the room and sat without hesitation. He handed me the bag of  _ Funyuns _ he’d been munching on. As we watched the show in silence, it all came back to me. Those late nights staying up watching classic cartoons with him. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to be a kid again and crawl up into his lap. Things were so easy then.

The chips were salty, so during the commercial break, I headed into the kitchen for something to drink. From the fridge, I noticed there was a light on outside.

“Who’s in the garage?” I asked.

Dad turned. “Foster. He’s working on something for school.”

It made sense. Dad usually didn’t come downstairs if someone else wasn’t up. I nodded and took my glass of lemonade outside. I heard Foster before I saw him. A crash, a thud, and there he was in the storeroom past Mom’s car, fooling around with a bag of Dad’s potting soil.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked from the door.

Foster looked up. “Not at all.”

“Me either.”

I couldn’t see what Foster was working on until I got around the car. On the ground was the huge plastic box we’d dumped in the corner a while back. A thick layer of sediment coated the bottom of it. And Foster was standing there above the box, the bag of soil tipped precariously over his shoulder.

“It’s my part of the project with the Future Science Revolutionaries,” He explained once he saw the face I was making. “A diorama. We’re gonna simulate an earthquake.”

“Neat,” I set my drink aside. “Let me help.” Because Mom would not be pleased with dirt all over the garage floor.

Foster didn’t protest. In fact, he jabbered on about how they planned to rig several containers— because Foster wasn’t the only one they subjected to this— up to some device that would simulate seismic waves and destroy the microcosm he also had to build atop the soil. This was fairly different from the robotic/physics-type work the Future Revolutionaries usually did. When I mentioned such to Foster, he said they were going through an ‘experimental’ phase. 

Experimental phases aside, this really did sound neat as hell. So, I held the box steady as Foster poured in the soil, then leveled it out with my hands. In the tranquility that followed, I realized how much Foster’s presence grounded me. His gentle chatter was soothing after having spent the evening around my rowdy peers. Distantly, I thought about mentioning the goings-on of the party to Foster. I decided against it in favor of not wrecking the good mood.

Foster was on to telling me the importance of earthquake-resistant homes. I humored him. “Oh yeah, you should get Mom and Dad on that right now. Earthquakes are all the rage here.”

Foster grinned. I had grown to admire his quirks, and I knew others had too. That reminded me of Rachel’s inquiry.

“Hey,” I asked as he stored the remainder of the soil. “You know Rachel Woodson?”

He didn’t look up as he answered. “Yep.”

“Well, she wanted to know if you’d do an article for the newspaper. About being a freshman on varsity.”

Foster hummed like that was the most normal thing I could’ve asked him. “She wrote that article about Ezra with you, right?”

“Yeah,” I picked up my watered-down drink. “I did the interview and she compiled it.”

A few moments passed with neither of us saying anything. I figured Foster was still thinking about it, so I stayed silent. I drained my cup, the only sound between us was the straw sucking up the last dribbles of lemonade.

Foster’s response was strange and sudden. “I get stuck sometimes. My mind grabs onto something and won’t let go no matter how hard I try. It’s… weird. _ Frustrating.” _ It was the way his voice sounded that got to me. Frantic and defeated.

“S’that what happened after the game?”

“Sorta.”

“You could’ve told me,” I said. “I would’ve helped.”

“I know. It just seems bleak at the time, y’know?” He was on the ground across from me, back against the wall, looking up at the flickering light. His eyes were tired. How long had he felt like this?

“Have you ever… told your therapist about it?” It was late. Technically, Saturday. He would be going to see him or her today.

“Yeah. All he makes me talk about is my dad. Trying to pick my unconscious mind, I guess.”

I toyed with the paper straw in my empty cup. “You can talk to me, you know that? You don’t have to… suffer alone.”

It was no secret that I worried for Foster more than I worried for myself. Maybe I was being overprotective, but it seemed like he couldn’t catch a break. And that hurt. I was unextraordinary Devon Tennyson, and now, I wished Foster could get a bit of that averageness so that he wouldn’t have to hurt like this.

“I know,” Foster said, then stood up. “I have you.” He gave me a hand up off the ground. I smiled. We pushed the diorama to the side, turned off the light, and were heading inside when he added, “I’ll do the interview, but you’ve gotta do something for me.”

“What?”

He had this goofy grin on his face when I glanced over at him. “Jordan’s Halloween party is comin’ up. Match costumes with me?”

Foster could’ve asked for the moon and I would’ve said yes. Anything to see him happy. “Sure,” I said.

**Author's Note:**

> comments > kudos


End file.
